#im sorry this took so long omg !!

[dadzxwa]

Ugh I’m going to have a panic attack over something so stupid

"I'm sure it isn't stupid if its causing a panic attack. You probably have multiple different stresses occurring simultaneously."

[askchuuyanakahara]

OH HI AKUGATAWA MA BOY where's gin?

Chuuya: "The Black Lizards, that is."

Akutagawa: "I have not seen her."

Chuuya: "If you want kissing so badly, watch a romance movie or something."

Chuuya: "I was just about to go grab a small bite to eat, actually."

Akutagawa: "Ah.. no thank you, I only came here to give you this file.."

Chuuya: "Let's go!"

Akutagawa: "Chuuya-san..!"

-----

Chuuya: "Aren't you glad I got you to come with?"

Akutagawa: "Ah yes.. thank you, Chuuya-san."

Chuuya: "But you don't like dogs, do you?"

Akutagawa: "Unfortunately, I do not."

Chuuya: "Don't worry! I'm not offended or anything."

Chuuya: "I only just got her so I don't want to overwhelm her.."

Chuuya: "Maybe I'll see if she'd like a nice hat."

@bioluminescentcat

Chuuya: "Seriously.. I'm getting exhausted by all these assumptions."

Akutagawa: "M.. my apologies, Chuuya-san."

Chuuya: "Ane-san asked me to."

Chuuya: ".. it doesn't matter, ignore me."

[intotheelliwoods]

Poptart to Poptart to Poptart to Poptart communication.

[spencer0o7]

soft harley quinn x fem reader gf hcs?

I’ve always loved harley quinn so i rlly love this idea 💗 (sorry it took me forever tho)

Harley LOVES hugging you. You’ll often cuddle on the couch together probably watching some movie musical. Harley definitely isn’t afraid of PDA either. She’ll kiss you, hold your hand or hug you in public. She loves you and isn’t afraid to show it.

“Harls everyone’s looking,” You giggle. “Let em look!”

You love doing eachother’s hair. If you have curly/coily hair she’ll learn to do styles on your hair type. You love having matching hairstyles, like both having braids or fun updo’s.

She loves helping you do your makeup (though be aware she likes doing experimental looks). You two often go on night outs, especially to nightclubs to get wasted. You’ll always look out for each other though. Harley will throw hands with any guy being creepy. You’re there if Harley ever gets so drunk she starts fighting the bartender.

Sleeping in bed with Harley is so chaotic. She for some reason cannot sleep without 9 blankets and she can’t share a single one with you. You’ll eventually fall asleep cold and freezing but you’ll wake up with Harley’s legs intertwined with yours and her arms around your waist. She’s a blanket hog but you love her.

Harley never goes grocery shopping with a list. Shopping with her is definitely and experience. Every 5 seconds Harley will pop up in front of you holding some random product and telling you about how she “NEEDS to have this.”

You’ll let her try to convince you about this “amazing” product she can’t live without for a bit till she eventually runs off to find something else to obsess about.

Cooking food together is how you love spending time together. You love cooking and Harley loves cooking with you (you’re always stopping her from putting ‘special ingredients’ in the food). If you ever find some new recipe you want to try, Harley will be right there with you buying the ingredients at a marketplace and following your instructions on what to do next in the kitchen.

“Next pour the stock into the rice,” You say reading from the recipe. “Aye aye chef,” She replied cheerfully. You watch as Harley pours the stock into the pan with the rice. She looks at you with excitement “What’s next?”

[noornight]

Rapple kiss <3

[ohdeerfully]

HEYY HIII i finally gave some attention to this fic! this will be the final part, so i wrote in some semi sweet fluffiness between reader and al <3 kisses kisses hugs love you all!

Your Half of the Deal (iii)(Final)

Alastor x Reader

part i part ii part iii

TW: kidnapping, violence, alastor ooc probably... oh whale

join my discord!

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You had lost track of the time spent in that room, a near constant headache thrumming in your head due to the deep bass that you now knew resonated from the club just beyond the door. Every now and then you would recognize the faint tune of a familiar pop song—Angel often took you out to bars to escape from the Hotel—and let yourself enjoy the recognition, humming along. It was truly the only thing you could do with yourself.

You humored yourself with the thought of who your knight in shining armor may be, if one ever came. Would it be Alastor? Finally holding up his half of your soul bargain? Or maybe even Angel, stumbling across you in a bender with Cherri? Or even an unrelated third party that wouldn’t even recognize you; surely the Vee’s have made enough enemies to warrant somebody saving you just to get back at them. No matter who crossed your mind, you couldn’t get your hopes up. You were certain it hadn’t been days in here, but it had been long enough that you were starting to convince yourself nobody was coming.

You may just have to save yourself.

Due to the constant struggle against the metal restraints that chained you to the bed, your wrists had begun to blister and scab, sending dull waves of sensitive pain through your arms. Vox often visited, putting on a face of care and concern, but you knew better than to trust him. All Overlords had to be manipulative to get their way, and Vox was no exception—in fact, he may just be the worst of the worst (not including Alastor). He offered various times to help you dress the wounds on your arms, but you returned his gestures by hissing insults and lunging for that oversized television he had for a head. He kept trying, though, and each attempt at playing nice made you feel all the more crazy and violent. 

Speak of the devil, you thought with a frown as the door opened, briefly casting multicolored lights and a blare of loud music into the room before it was quickly silenced by the click of the door closing again. You subconsciously leaned towards the exit, desperately wanting to escape.

The tall, flat-faced demon strode in, head held high with, in your opinion, undeserved confidence. He was a coward. You fucking hated cowards. You let your lips curl into a sneer as he stopped a foot away from you, peering down with his own curled smirk. 

“You’ll get an infection,” Vox referred to your wrists. This shit again? You clenched your fists. “Please, let me treat them. It’s the least I could–”

“Man fuck off with that shit!” You snapped, leaning forward. You bared your fangs at him, tail lashing. “The least you could do is let me the fuck out! I’m fuckin’ hungry!”

Vox’s smile grew wider, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He took a breath in through his teeth, trying to remain polite. He sat down next to you, the mattress dipping with his weight. You took extreme care to not let yourself fall towards him from the unexpected shift.

Despite every bone in your body wanting to lunge in attack like usual, you held back. Truthfully you knew it was futile, you just enjoyed the rush you got from just trying to fight back. This time, though, you wanted to see if you could get any information about your current situation out of him. Maybe it would help you escape.

“You know we can’t let you out,” He said in a condescendingly sweet tone. He reached a hand out and placed it on your shoulder, digging his claws into your shirt and nearly into your skin when you tried to jerk away. You got the hint. “What better way to get to that out-dated Overlord than taking away his favorite toy?”

“I’m not a toy,” You said through clenched teeth. While you doubted this fact yourself, you would never admit it. Not to Vox. The smile he gave you in return was akin to an adult looking down on a naive child. It made your blood boil, and the internal battle you were having to not fly into attack mode was getting harder and harder. All the while you were talking, you kept analyzing him, looking for any semblance to a key, or anything that may serve as a lockpick. Whether to your restraints or even to the door, either would bring you one step closer to getting out. 

There was no doubt he recognized what you were doing—he was an Overlord, not a fool. Maybe he didn’t expect you to be much of a challenge, or to get very far, as he made no move to avert your prying eyes. If anything, it was like he was asking you to try, what with the way he shifted in such a way that you noticed the slight imprint of a key in his pocket. You tried your best to act indifferent. How the hell were you going to get that?

“Could you at least let me out for a moment to piss?” You kept up the attitude, but slumped your shoulders to look defeated and averted your eyes to the floor. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his smile grow, a cheshire-like grin as if he was watching a mouse play right into his trap. And you didn’t doubt you were, Vox would never be so careless as to reveal the presence of a key unless it was on purpose. It didn’t matter to you, though, because you resolved to just be stronger than he expected you to be. He was underestimating you.

“Oh, but of course! No wonder you’ve been so snippy,” He joked, idly picking up the chain that was attached to the wall with a finger as he spoke. He shifted his hand over towards your wrists, gripping them just barely hard enough to send a wave of sensitive pain through your hand. You grit your teeth and bore back any recognition of the pain as he continued to fiddle with your chains.

He produced a key from his coat pocket. This must mean that the key in his pants pocket was for the door… which, if everything goes fine, would be perfect. Without your restraints, you only had to worry about getting the fuck out of here.

Relief swelled through your wrists when the clasps fell away from your skin, fresh air soothing your raw skin. You allowed yourself a second to tenderly press your fingers against the blisters, wincing at the sting it caused. You shook your hands out in front of you and stood, watching Vox out of the corner of your eye. He stood and offered his arm to you; although, you knew it was less of an offer and more of a command. He wouldn’t let you out of here if he couldn’t hold on to you.

You slowly slipped your arm through the curve of his elbow, linking yourself to him. You allowed yourself to mentally vomit at the contact, but held your expression steady and calm as he led you out. Maybe causing a scene in public will help? Honestly doubtful—you were in Hell, after all, and demons were much too intimidated by the technology Overlord. Maybe someone you know will just so happen to be here?

Thoughts and plans raced through your mind, but none seemed plausible. At this point, you thought it was just best to throw yourself at him even if it got you nowhere. It might do you good to get some energy out at the very least. 

Your senses were immediately overwhelmed when he opened the door; bright, flashing neon lights and the deep booming bass of music swamped over you. You were no stranger to this type of scene, but after being locked up in a deathly quiet room for some time… a headache was quick to come.

Swiftly taking in the scene before you, you desperately searched for some semblance of familiarity within the sea of people as Vox led you against the wall towards the restroom. You didn’t see anybody that you knew, but caught a few curious eyes, no doubt over the fact that you were basically holding Vox’s hand. You wished you could cast out some mental signal that you did not want to be this close to the Overlord and beg demons not to get the wrong idea. 

Your attention was brought back when Vox’s arm fell away from yours, and you realized you were standing in front of the restroom. You cast him a quick look before quickly dashing into the room, thankful to finally have a chance away from him without shackles on your arms. You rested your hands on the lip of the sink, heaving a shaky breath and looking absently at the drain, tracing the pattern of the speckles of undrained water that clung to the porcelain. You tried not to let it get to you, especially not in his presence, but being so close to the Technology Overlord made every nerve in your body blaze with anxiety.

Flipping the faucet on, you let the lukewarm water run over your bruised wrists. Times like this you wished Hell had the convenience of cold tapwater, but the water nevertheless did the job of soothing your skin. You watched the water blankly for a minute, mind lost in thought over your situation. The gentle warmth of the water almost sent you into a trancelike state, and you were likely to get stuck there for a few moments just enjoying it if it wasn’t for a loud banging at the door and an impatient voice calling for you. You snapped back a retort about him rushing you, but you still turned off the faucet and dried your hands.

With a quick glance at yourself in the mirror, you gave yourself a resolute and firm look before leaving the restroom. You could do this.

You flung open the door, not taking time to observe Vox’s somewhat surprised look as his fist was still raised to continue knocking on the door. You made a mad dash past him, ducking under claws that swung at your shirt collar in an attempt to yank you back. 

“Fuck- fucking get back here!” You heard him snarl from behind you, voice unnaturally louder than the music that boomed in the room. It was as if he just… commanded the music to be quieter so he could project his own, overpowering voice. Though you knew, as the Technology Overlord, that was most likely in his limit of power, you still couldn’t help the cold feeling that the uncanny experience sent in your bones. You kept running, ignoring the shouts of curiosity from the crowd at the whole ordeal.

A strong arm wrapped around your neck, bringing you close to somebody’s chest. The sudden change of momentum and pressure on your throat made you sputter momentarily for air, but it didn’t take long for you to come to and realize how fucked you were.

“Vox! Ova’ here!” The demon who held you tightly shouted, and you managed to just barely catch sight of his face. His smile was huge and toothy, a pleased look glimmering in his eyes. He fiercely waved his hand in the air.

“You gross, good for nothing fanboy!” You cried, struggling in his grip. You brought your hands up to his burly arm and dug your claws as much as possible into his skin, yanking down and shredding his skin. He kicked you away with a pained yelp, snarling some curses at you as he nursed his arms and slunk back in the crowd, of which had formed a large circle around the two of you, undoubtedly to the bar to lick his wounds. You stood, preparing to run, but… You realized it was too late.

Vox cleared his throat behind you. He had no need to grab you—you both knew running would be futile at this point. You tightened your lips together in a grimace and clenched your fists. What would you do now? 

Fuck it, and, just like you had when you first came across him, you lunged at him. Though, this time you went lower, hurling yourself into his stomach. He stumbled just enough to give you time to send a frenzy of claws across his body, scratching anything that came within reach of you. You gripped his leg and yanked up, toppling him over before you ran once again.

You didn’t get far before something curled over your ankle, twisting around the limb and tripping you. You fell to your hands with a loud ‘fuck’ before shooting your eyes to see what the culprit was—a thin wire twisted up your leg, digging harder and harder into your skin as the seconds past. Every attempt you made seemed futile to rid yourself of Vox, and you had to bite back a cry of frustration.

“Pets don’t get far without their leash,” He spat distastefully at you. A line of blood fell from his mouth, and you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in yourself for making Vox feel some pain, even if the blood on his face was just a display of light.

Vox walked closer, his height sending an ominous shade over your downed body. You didn’t let yourself tremble, though you wanted to, because you truly had nowhere to go from here; you couldn’t let him know that you were afraid. You would keep fighting him, no matter what, even if it would kill you. If you weren’t going to escape this shit, you would die trying. In your frenzied mindset, you didn’t notice the growing sensation of static that prickled against your skin.

◈

Alastor stood in front of the club, ears flat against his head in an attempt to block out the blaring music that he could already hear from outside the doors. He abhorred places like this, finding them distasteful and a disgrace to the clubs that he frequented back in his day. Of course, he had to get over himself in that regard—finding and saving you from the grasps of that nasty TV head was more important.

His shadow had returned to him a few hours after he left the Vees’ residence, having seen Vox himself entering the club through a back entrance. He had wasted no time in making his way there, ignoring the painful thrumming of his heart and the twisting feeling his stomach made. 

With a twirl of his cane and quick adjustment to his bowtie, he made his way in, melting into his shadow to slip in the crack of the same back door his shadow had seen. When inside, he found himself in a somewhat desolate corner of the club, his ears twitching uncomfortably at the sound of the music, louder now that he was inside. He swept his red eyes across the huge room, trying to see past the swarm of demons.

A light pressure on his shoulder, which he quickly recognized came from his shadow, urged his attention towards a room just to the left of the back entrance. The door was cracked open, and he slunk towards the door, peeking in before entering to ensure nobody was there.

The room immediately sent a wave of some uncomfortably intense emotion through him, though he wasn’t quite sure what—fury, maybe?—because the room smelled just like you. His nostrils flared and his eyes immediately narrowed at the realization, and the stick of his cane creaked from the grip he held on it. He didn’t fully understand why the hint of your presence after your absence made him feel so strongly, but he did know that he was pissed, the feeling of which was only increased tenfold when he saw the shackles that lay ominously barren on the bed.

He swiftly left the room, not caring if the slamming of the door brought any attention to him. It didn’t, though, and he quickly realized that a commotion on the other side of the club had already drawn the attention of everyone. A voice—no, your voice shouted something, and another wave of that fury coursed through Alastor’s veins. He quickly moved forward, shoving through the crowd. Demons began noticing his presence as he pushed, and space was being made for him to move through.

Though he wanted nothing more than to simply tear Vox apart, Alastor quickly gained composure and stepped out from the crowd into the wide berth that had formed around Vox and you. 

Alastor met your gaze for a brief moment, noting how thrilled you looked to see him and quickly sweeping his eyes over your body and analyzing your condition. His smile curled up in a light snarl when he saw the wire that twisted around your leg. How dare that flat-faced Overlord touch what belonged to Alastor?

He turned his head towards said Overlord, whose face was lit with a multitude of different emotions. Alastor could tell his breathing was coming rapidly, and whether it was due to excitement, fear, or even both, Alastor didn’t know nor did he truly care. All he saw was a pathetic demon before him who took something that wasn’t his.

“My old friend!” Alastor exclaimed with fake friendliness, a smile lighting up his face as his arms stretched up and wide. He stepped towards Vox, an ominous shadow forming under his feet as he walked. Tiny tendrils of flame licked up from the manifesting power as Alastor purposefully made an attempt to intimidate Vox into submission. There was intense bloodlust in his veins, but he was less inclined to create a scene with another Overlord than just getting out of here with you. Plus, despite Vox’s obsession with defeating Alastor, the other two Vee’s really kept out of the feud… Alastor didn’t want to draw the attention of them as well.

Vox didn’t yield, though, and he also began walking towards Alastor, though his body language was much less friendly. His shoulders were high and tense and his claws curled into fists, a frown flickering onto the screen of his face. The two stopped just a foot from each other, and the energy in the room crackled dangerously. The music had stopped, and the crowd of demons had begun slinking out of the club, deathly quiet so as to not draw the attention from the Overlords. This wasn’t particularly necessary, though, as they watched each other with equally unyielding iron stares.

Alastor allowed one more look at you when he heard you weakly say his name. Maybe the sight of him brought you enough relief to finally let exhaustion overcome your body, because you had lost all will to fight. When he saw just how pitiful you looked, how extremely exhausted you were, he didn’t care to hold back anymore.

“I don’t let thieves get away for long,” Alastor said, his voice low and filled with static. He felt the weight of his horns as they expanded while his limbs grew unnaturally, allowing him to tower in height over Vox. In response, tendrils of wire began sprouting from Vox’s body, as well as dangling from the ceiling, poised to attack. “Somebody should’ve taught you some manners on property.”

“We’re in Hell, genius,” Vox growled back. There was an almost ecstatic look in his eyes, but his voice sounded rushed and frantic. “I know you’re old, but come on! How do you forget that?”

Alastor didn’t grace Vox with a response, an inky black spear of shadow shooting from the pool that had been forming underneath Alastor’s feet. It stabbed into Vox’s leg, who couldn’t react in time, but he stood his ground still and threw his own wave of tendrils at Alastor in return. Alastor was quick to move out of the way of the piercing wire, but he wasn’t able to avoid the three that came from above and wrapped around his torso, lifting him nearly a foot off the ground. His red eyes were steadfast of Vox, and he didn’t bother to struggle against the wire. Vox brought him closer, face inches away from Alastor’s own.

“Somebody should’ve taught you about knowing your place! You outdated–” Vox had let his guard down, if only for a moment, and Alastor took that chance. His arm surged forward and through Vox’s face, shattering the glass display. The screen immediately went black, save for the flashes of glitching display lights as the sound of his voice was cut short, replaced by unintelligible buzzing and zapping. Alastor withdrew his hand, bleeding lightly from the glass and metal, and quickly caught his balance when the wires around his torso slackened, dropping him.

Alastor easily stepped to the side as Vox’s twitching body fell to its knees and then forward, the flat screen slamming into the ground with an almost comical slap. The radio demon looked down at it for a few seconds, the corners of his smile curling in a displeased sneer. He truly wanted to avoid getting physical. Vox wasn’t dead, Alastor knew better than to get his hopes up, but his ego would certainly be bruised.

His attention was drawn away from the body, still jerking and sparking, when he heard you softly call for him. He turned on his heel, positioning his hands over his cane to lean and look down at you. You were looking up at him, picking yourself up from the sticky club floor to sit on your knees. He couldn’t keep his eyes from lingering over your haggard appearance, especially the raw, blistering skin of your wrists.

Maybe it was how pitiful you looked, peering up at him like an abandoned kitten, your eyes glazed with a mixture of tears and exhaustion, but something in Alastor urged him to swoop down and hold you in his arms. He was able to fight himself for just a brief moment, but the overwhelming sensation of relief eventually got the best of him.

A cautious step forward, an uncertain glance over your expression, another step, pause… before he finally knelt down in front of you. He looked into your eyes, searching—for what he didn’t really know—before his arms slowly slid under yours, wrapping against the dip of your waist and gently pulling you towards himself. For now he was acting without much thought, doing something he never thought himself capable of. And, strangely enough, you reciprocated the gesture. Why was his heart swelling so much as he felt you tying your own arms around his neck? 

It was silent for some time, the club long abandoned from the confrontation with the TV demon. The tender embrace the two of you shared in a rather unconventional place was likely going to be brushed under the rug, forced to be forgotten; you both knew this fact, so maybe that’s why Alastor was letting it draw on for so long. He himself didn’t understand why he enjoyed the feeling.

“Thank you,” you started slowly, afraid to break the silence. You worried that calling attention back to reality would make Alastor shove you away and walk you home like nothing happened. When he made to move to do so, you continued. “For… saving me. I really appreciate it.”

“I couldn’t leave you in the hands of that pompous Overlord,” Alastor responded matter-of-factly. Though, you did notice the sudden lack of radio ambience in his voice. You bit back the thought of making any sort of joke about him actually caring about you—now was definitely an extremely inappropriate time for that. Maybe later.

You pulled away from the embrace slightly, making eye contact with the radio demon, your faces inches apart. You saw something in those red eyes that looked back at you, a spark of some desire that you wouldn’t dare name in front of him. You would be lying if you didn’t feel the same, too. 

When had you fallen for this guy? This overimposing jerk that manipulated you into selling your soul to him to throw you around like a doll? And why? Maybe him actually pulling his weight in your deal helped you finally realize your unknown attachment to him.

In your thoughts, you failed to realize how the proximity of your faces had gotten smaller and smaller, and you were only jerked back to the present when you felt the lightest touch of his lips against yours. In shock, you had opened your eyes, but quickly closed them when you realized what was happening. 

What felt like ages was really only a couple seconds, which was the capacity Alastor could handle. He pulled himself away, and you didn’t fail to see the hue of red that heated his face, though it was light. He cleared his throat and pressed his lips into a thin line, before he composed himself into his usual happy smile.

“A siren, I see!” He joked, trying to play himself cool as he looked down at his chest to fix his bowtie. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

You flashed him a coy grin, unwrapping yourself from the hug and struggling to your feet. He gingerly held your hand in his so you wouldn’t fall, and let you lean against him. Falling from that wire grabbing you had evidently caused your ankle to sprain, and you were just now realizing after the adrenaline had left your system. You looked up at him playfully.

“Surely contracts can be changed.”

Alastor hummed in response, looking forward to not meet your eyes. That wasn’t a no, though.

part i part ii

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taglist

@enbytwink@wonderlife974@cannibalcoyote@reigenmagnet@tsukilover11@sophiasrant@bby-clowns@amurtan@sleepykittycx@radical-bunny@kimkimmm2411@mihuntress@lunaria1@spirlimpo@poppingaround@scrumpdidlyuptious@sammyaftxn@quinnofthevoid@fabii275@abbiedail@tuhlollo@venom-laced-words @littledolly2345 @mommmysstuff @lvnalxve @mo-0-o

[somethingaboutmint]

Quick ugly doodle of cassidy contemplating her sexuality at some dump somewhere

[wynnibee]

Having fun with no strings attached, hm?

@eyenaku HI IM SO SO SO SORRY FOR HOW LATE THIS IS BUT I WAS YOUR SECRET SANTA AND HERE'S YOUR GIFT HHHH

id in alt and under the cut!

[id: a shaded and colored drawing of harlequin sun, columbine y/n, and pierrot moon standing around a carousel coyote.

going from left to right; harlequin sun has a gold, six pointed jester hat resembling sunrays, with a bell at the end of each point. he's wearing a black mask with a line through it following his crescent. his eyes are simple white dots on a gray-ish sclera. sun has large blue and red ruffles around his neck, with a blue frill under the ruffles. he's wearing a blue, long sleeved shirt covered in alternating red and yellow diamonds, with blue ribbons wrapped around his wrists with a single bell on each. he has a barely visible blue hip drape, that sits on top of his red jester pants. he's hanging off of the carousel pole, and standing leaned over with a bent knee to look at Columbine. his other arm hangs limply at his side.

Columbine themselves has their curly brown hair pulled up into a half-bun, with a crown of white pointsettias behind their bangs. large triangle shaped earrings hang from their ears, and they have long wavy eyelashes with brown eyes, a small amount of blush and brown lipstick. they have brown eyes with large black pupils and a small white dot in the center of each pupil. around their shoulders is a large fur half jacket, held together by a sparkly moon shaped clasp. they have long, fluffy pink sleeves with blue ribbons wrapped around their wrist. while most of columbine's dress is obscured by the wrap, a gold band can be seen underneath, with then flows into their dress skirt. the skirt is blue on the outside, with an inner strip of pink bordered with red ruffles. they're sitting on the carousel animal, with both arms extended. one is held out and the other is resting on moon's face. they have a smile on their face and their head is tilted slightly towards moon while they look over at sun.

the coyote is multiple shades of brown, starting out dark on the back and getting lighter towards the white underbelly and muzzle. the inside of the coyote's fluffy ears are also white. the coyote is standing in a half running pose, with one paw pulled up. each paw is wrapped in flowing red ribbons with two bells on each leg. a red bridle and rein sits on the coyote's face, held together with a star shaped metal piece. the bridle is embroidered with simple green and gold floral patterns. a long golden pole extends from the coyote's shoulders.

pierrot moon is entirely black and white, and he wears a long nightcap with two black puffs on the tail and one at the very tip of the cap. he has large eyelashes and three jester stripes cutting through his black eyes. he has a single white dot in the center of his eyes. he also wears large neck ruffles with fluffy black trim. his shirt resembles a long sleeved pajama shirt, with black trim. his wrist is wrapped in black ribbon. he has a black band around his waist and he wears plain white jester pants. he's looking at Columbine with his hand on top of theirs, holding it to his face. he has one eye closed and he has a large smile on his face with black lipstick over his smile. he's standing mostly behind Columbine, but he's leaning slightly to the side.

the background is a blurred carousel at night, with glowing golden lights. the entire image is covered in white sparkles. end id.]

[cygniavenue]

Could you draw bird!Sthe and Dio🥺?

technically i unbirded him for this one but is this anything.....

[cheesy09]

[CN] Kiro's Upcoming Passionate Love Development Mind's Quest

🌸 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for content that hasn't been released on the EN server yet! 🌸

I want to have fun with you and say with a smile that the weather is good.

Let us indulge in this love forever.

Translator: @cheesy09

🌟 Mind's Quest: Passionate Love Development

The location for where the MV was to be shot for our band, TwinkLe, is the island that is still as splendid as ever.

B&B rooms, ships in bottles, underwater walks... all the regrets of that past summer are now fulfilled.

The distant song passes through the curtain of water, like some charming spell, wrapping around your bodies and heartbeats in the chaotic depths of this summer, amidst the echoing waves.

--"Let us indulge in this love forever."

Kiro and I suddenly came up with the idea of writing a new song for TwinkLe and accompany it with a MV. But we had some difficulties conceptualizing what the new song would look like, and where the MV would go...

"What I want to say is that these two songs have already been done. How about we narrow down the list of keywords a little more?"

"Narrow meaning..?"

"Something we all need, be it summer days or nights. And having it makes us happy... like..?"

Under my gesture, our eyes widen even more, and we both come to a tacit understanding of the term when we look at each other.

"...Water!"

"Yes, it's water!"

"Summer is all about playing with water, drinking water, and enjoying water!"

"Kiro, let's make music that is just like water!"

Kiro's eyes grow extremely bright upon this answer, and becomes almost visibly excited.

"Water... the water in summer... is very cool, but also very soft. It has the calmness of a swimming pool and the waves of the sea..."

"Don't forget about the little splashes during a water fight!"

I am just about to poke his cheek with a finger-gun, but he suddenly cups my cheek in the palm of his hands.

The next second, a passionate kiss falls on my lips with no explanation whatsoever.

"You are indeed the best, most incredible muse!"

"TwinkLe's music it is!"

[tearfest]

ㅤㅤshe knew that she shouldn't be here. not if the rumours that had brought her here were to be believed. the last thing she wanted was to rattle the cage of a sleeping lion. but she hadn't flown over night from washington to chicken out now, not when she had come so far — well, to the doors of the saltburn manor.

ㅤㅤvoice recorder was switched on and tucked in the back pocket of her jeans when she finally knocked, quickly taking the chance to adjust auburn locks. she should at least look somewhat professional. she waited, and hesitated; worried that the first knock wasn't loud enough, what with the sheer grandiosity of the home. so she knocked again, louder this time, before reaching for the large and obnoxious knocker she'd somehow missed in her haze of anxiety. ironic for such a nosy journalist.

closed starter for @ourpretender.

[sophistired18]

No one talk to me. I fell in love.

[unicyclehippo]

wn prompt blood

for @possibilistfanfiction , joan of arc themed fic for you!

//

most of the time, you don't remember your dreams. they're hazy, forgettable for the most part. sometimes, a couple of bright details will linger, like that time you didn't put sunscreen under the straps of your swimsuit and went red there on either side. the next morning, the sunburn had been warm and itchy and you'd scratched at it all the next day. your dreams are like that. (your curiosity is like that, just on the edge of painful.)

sometimes, you dream of beatrice. it doesn't happen often and usually it isn't that exciting. once, she's a seagull, and dream-you had looked at it and went, oh there she is. once, she's a face in a crowd. once, she's a big old church. that had made you laugh, even in your dream, because like. yeah. thanks subconscious, you get it, she's a nun. when you wake up, you tell beatrice, breathless, as she makes you run and run and run. you were a seagull. you were walking down the street. you were a church. sometimes you save it for your recovery water-break, because you want to see the way embarrassment breaks across her face, hot and pink, when you say i dreamed about you last night.

what was i this time? she asked, once. a frog?

no, don't you get it? whatever you look like, you're beatrice. you're always beatrice.

//

tonight, you dream of beatrice and she's an angel. she's beatrice and she isn't. it's her face. it's her pyjamas, her legs lean and long, her hair loose around her shoulders, her stride as she walks toward you. but it's not her.

she stops in front of you.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot, like what you imagine being at the core of the earth would feel like - crust, mantle, outer core like the heaviest weighted blankets ever. beatrice is standing in front of you, so fucking pretty, and then she reaches out for you and you know, you know it's not her, because beatrice doesn't touch you when she wants to. and there's nothing here to teach you, nothing to learn, so she never would. she sits two inches from you on the couch, she sleeps with a pillow between you in the bed, she doesn't touch you when she slips past you to get to the fridge when you're washing dishes in the sink. she doesn't touch you because she wants to and you know this even though you've never spoken about it, never brought it up, because you're intimately familiar with not touching the things you want and while you don't understand what is stopping beatrice, exactly, you think it has something to do with hunger. you're hungry all the time; you want to eat the world, would, if you could. but she's a nun, and they don't get to want things, they take vows of chastity and poverty or whatever, and you don't know if there's a vow specifically about hunger but you wouldn't be surprised. eve and her apple, jesus and his fig tree. the day you came to life, you ate strawberries, a lot of them, as fast as you could. juice spilling down your chin. the day beatrice swore to protect you and took off her habit, her veil, she hadn't eaten anything at all.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot and beatrice reaches out her hands and you take them, even though it isn't beatrice (it looks like her, you want it to be her) and she pulls herself toward you and your heart is beating so fast fluttering at the base of your throat like you swallowed a bird (a swallow, ha!) and it's struggling, beating frantically to escape, and you don't know what to do. beatrice is a nun. beatrice is touching you. her hands are so warm. you've felt them before, burning against your skin when she takes you down (take me apart please, sister beatrice) onto the practice mat day after day after day. her hands are burning hot. her hands are gentle but they don't move normally, they move up your arms and the heat follows, like you're pushing your hands into liquid flame. up your arms. over your shoulders.

she brings you in for a hug.

an embrace. the thought is a little shaky, a little embarrassed even in your own mind. you've never been embraced before.

your faces are so close.

beatrice, you think.

she doesn't smile, doesn't blink. she stares into your eyes, warm and thoughtful and deeply sad, and that is beatrice, but you can't tell where she ends and where whatever this is begins. it's not beatrice. it's just wearing her face.

the swallow in your throat didn't escape in time. it stabs its beak into you and you're numb from the neck down, you're dead from the neck down. there's blood in your throat, hot and holy; you don't want it to be either of those things, you don't want it at all, you don't want to be bleeding, it's in your mouth and you're burning hot but you're frozen in her arms. you can't move.

'beatrice,' you whimper.

she leans in and in and in and you didn't want the blood but if she kisses you it might be fucking worth it. her lips don't touch you; she leans sideways, going in for the hug? she's so close, the heat of her stings. your cheek, your ear. she pauses. you're burning up. she leans in. her lips touch the skin behind your ear. you burn.

//

the apartment is small. two single beds squashed against opposite walls. you wake up with blood on your lips, with a scream on your lips, with the smell of something burning high up in your nose. pressing your hand to your mouth so you don't throw up. you're sweating. the window by your bed groans when you shove it open, careful to press on the wood because if you shove at it, if you shove at the glass it'll break under your trembling, too-strong fingers, it'll shatter and cut and you don't want to hurt, you don't want to bleed, you just want to shove your head out the window and breathe.

elbows on the windowsill, head hanging over the edge, you do. you breathe. choke on feathers. cough once around the feeling. every bit of you hurts like it's been stretched out. like a growth spurt, the pain of growing into yourself; like the rack, like someone did this to you, pulled you to pieces and put you back together with nothing but the hurt to say it was done at all.

it's barely dawn. here, in the valley, pre-dawn is grey and green, all caves and growing things. it's startlingly beautiful, like everything else you've seen. you love being here. knee-high grass, apple trees, history. there are parts of town that you avoid; there's a red shimmer to them that you thought might be wraiths but over time, you figured out that it was history, blood on blood on blood, and there's something to the echo of it, the layering, that is terrifying. there's something to the rebuilding of it that is daunting, lovely, humbling. could you do that? see your house burn down, see your family struck down, and build on the same place? what about your broken back? what about your death, your resurrection? was that the same?

this morning, you hear church bells in the distance. turn toward the spire, the bells, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. you are going to leave this place. not today but soon.

//

beatrice is asleep still. you pull back from the window, shuffle to the end of your tiny bed and lean over, patting around for the socks that you kicked off sometime during the night. the floorboards are freezing, even in the balmy summer.

stepping into the bathroom, you close the door before turning on the light so it doesn't wake beatrice.

you don't lock the door, ever.

the first time you showered here, you'd slipped getting out of the tub. the side of it was slick with soap and you were still clumsy - are still clumsy - still figuring out how high to lift your leg to step over things. beatrice is accustomed to it, your imperfect depth perception, the way you stumble when walking down the street, over your feet, over the uneven pavement; she's not accustomed to hearing the thump of your dumb ass falling out of the bathtub and knocking yourself out when your skull slams into the bathroom counter. you got a concussion, a headache, and a new rule. don't lock the door anymore, beatrice had said when you crawled to the door and unlocked it for her, to stop her from trying to break it down. (don't scare me like that again, she hadn't said but you'd heard her, loud and clear.)

you lock it this morning. it clicks shut. the sound shakes down your spine. when you stretch, you can hear it in your ears, the click.

the mirror is brilliantly clear in the cool morning. you press up close enough to it that your breath puffs out, fogs the glass. it shows you a girl, long hair blonde at the ends, in the curls where the sun has burned it. she's scared, eyes wide. little curls of hair are plastered to her forehead, her neck, where it's sweat-damp.

'you're okay,' you tell her, whisper it. touch the mirror clumsily, touch her cheek. leaning your forehead to the cold glass, you kiss her. when you pull back, the imprint of your lips remains like a fingerprint on the glass. when you pull back, you see that she doesn't believe you.

that makes sense. the dream stings when you think about it. your skin stings. it should be pink all over, burned bright. your neck - your neck. you haven't let yourself think about it. you look at the girl in the mirror and she looks back and nods.

'it's not real,' the girl in the mirror says, and you don't believe her.

lifting a hand, you touch your cheek, drag your fingers back to your ear, press your hair back as you turn. there, behind your ear, your skin is a burning bright red. a circle, a kiss of flame, like the press of pursed lips. the pain eases. you watch as it heals; it doesn't fade, not entirely, but the red goes from flame to blood to scab to sting. you could pass it off as a scar from the car accident, you could pass it off as a birthmark. you could do these things, if beatrice hadn't dressed you in a habit, hadn't collected up your hair and tucked it away into a nun's wimple - veil? whatever. if she hadn't had her hands on you, directing you, training you. if she hadn't helped you brush your hair and gather it up in a very neat ponytail. if she hadn't hugged you, fingers on the back of your neck. if she didn't watch you like she was trying to memorise you, mostly because it's her job.

you let your hair fall back into place. it covers the mark, mostly, when it's loose like this and it doesn't hurt anymore. if anything, it tickles; the skin feels sensitive and warm, feels more alive than the rest of you. that feeling fades too.

you flush the toilet. you wash your hands. you climb back into bed.

from the other side of the room, beatrice says, 'time?' sleepy, sad.

you laugh. it had been the best day of your life, finding out that beatrice liked sleep more than prayer, more than breakfast, more than anything. when she's curled into bed, blankets bundled around her, pillow pressing lines into her skin, you don't see a nun, you don't see god's weapon; you see a girl, sleepy and warm, you see someone who is dozingly selfish, who allows herself the small comfort of the snooze button. fondness light on your tongue, you look over at her, at the grumpy misery of rousing, and tell her, 'you can sleep more, bea. i just had to pee.'

'thank god,' she mutters and shoves her face into her pillow.

the thing in your dream had not been beatrice. it looked like her, it walked like her, it had seemed like her, a little beyond skin deep. you think of being mad but you're not. it makes sense. you can't think of a single thing it might have looked like except her.

an angel came to you in your dreams, and it looked like beatrice.

//

days pass. everything carries on the same way it has for the last few weeks. you work your shifts at the tiny cafe, bad at making coffee but good at making people smile. also, surprisingly good at math. you get to use a lot of puns, get to flirt with a lot of the customers. after work, you meet beatrice for training, running up and down stairs until your lungs burn. then sparring. you're improving, fast.

the news plays stories of a crisis, a virus. boils. hospitals filled with pain and hurt. the news shows images of him. you see men on their knees, you see people stretching out their hands to touch the hem of his white robes, you see the little army falling into step behind him and you ask beatrice to teach you how to use the sword.

'i'm ready.'

'you're angry. you can't afford to be angry.'

'the halo is powered by my emotions, right? i promise you, the anger helps.'

beatrice holds onto the sword. there's a sliver of blue where she's pulled it from the sheathe, just a little. divinium has never felt like anything before and you don't feel anything now when blue light washes through the room but you hear, behind your ear, a sigh.

'we must control our emotions, ava, or they will control us. anger is not what will win this war. remember what sister melanie wrote, remember what the rest of the warrior nuns wrote. you must move past these feelings.'

'fine. teach me how to do it, then. but i will need the sword too. isn't that what we're doing? isn't that why we're hiding? so i can train? that's the only thing that can hurt him, bea. i need to know.'

she teaches you. of course she does. but she watches you like she can see through you, like your skin is glass and she can see through to the scared girl with her skin on fire, with a bellyful of fire.

//

it happens like this.

three days after the dream, you are walking home smelling of coffee grounds, sneakers gritty with them. there's a sting on the inside of your wrists where you caught the steam wand because you were distracted, too busy making a joke at the pretty boy waiting for his drink, and the halo healed it instantly to a glossy red but it itches. you scratch at it.

across the street, there's a couple. a girl and a guy. they're walking together. his arm hangs around her shoulders. a wraith hangs around his. there's a kiss behind your ear, there's a voice and the voice is the kiss and it's also the light glinting off the knife as he adjusts it in the pocket of his jacket and it's the knowledge that cracks between your shoulder blades like a glowstick that he will hurt her, that she'll be found in this alley tomorrow by police, that she'll bleed out overnight.

your feet stick to the pavement.

beatrice likes this town. you like this town. you don't want to leave.

what happens, you ask the angel, if i do nothing?

the angel doesn't answer. it knows what you know. you can't do nothing.

you follow them. you follow them because there's a voice searing into your head that tells you to, because there's heat in your spine like a molten rod keeping you upright, keeping you walking. but mostly, you follow them because coming back to life has been a fucking joy—the beach, the sun, the sand, running, becoming, fucking, eating, drinking, dancing, singing, laughing—and that stops, it stops when someone stabs you. it stops when adriel presses you back against rock and sinks his hand into you, tries to kill you. you follow them because there's a girl who is about to be killed and it doesn't have to happen.

beatrice will be mad. she will forgive you.

the alley opens into a little square space between the buildings. there's one of those big dumpsters and a cluster of wooden pallets. there's a couple leaning up against the wall; they look like lovers and for a second you wonder if you were wrong, seeing the way he has her pressed up against the bricks, the way her head tilts back, the length of her neck arched, eager, her hands on his shoulders, fingernails biting into the leather of his jacket. but then you hear it—'no!'—and see it—light, the glint of it, the knife—and you race forward. grab him by the back of his jacket and wrench him away.

he crashes into the dumpster, unmoving.

'oh my god, oh my god,' the girl says. 'oh my god, he has a knife,'

which you should really take off him, but she's shaking and you feel strong, vibrant, brave, lovely. you feel like a knight, in your coffee-stained sneakers and your ugly little polo shirt that beatrice picked out of the thrift store for you. you feel like a knight, saving her life.

'i know. can you walk?'

'i - yeah, i - oh my god, he was going to kill me,' she says, and sags against the bricks, and you catch her before she falls.

'can you run? he won't stay down forever.'

'i think you knocked him out.' then, her eyes catch on something over your shoulder and go wide, terrified. 'his eyes are black, why are his eyes black?'

she shrieks when he lurches toward you both; you push her behind you and kick him in the nuts, staggering him for a split second, and walk the both of you back to the alley, telling her to go, to run away.

'why are his eyes black? what the fuck do you want, luc! what is wrong with you?'

'luc? that's his name? it's a long story but basically he's possessed.' ooh beatrice is going to kill you for this. 'i'll fix it. it's not his fault, i'll fix it.'

'possessed? what do we - do i call the cops?' she shrieks again, wraps her arms around you as you duck and pick up a two by four, jab it at him in a poor imitation of the sword fighting beatrice has been drilling into you.

'just run, just go. i'll fix it,' you tell her again, and you must sound confident because she turns and runs.

this isn't like the first time. you are not newly alive, you are not weak, you are not confused. you are afraid, still. the wraith throws himself at you; you twist free - thank you, bea - and punch him in the face. knuckles crack against his cheekbone, an awful sound. the two by four breaks across his shoulders. you hit him until there's red spilling out of him; only then do you stop, because you've done it, the wraith is seeping out, but you don't have a divinium knife, you don't have anything that can help.

the angel kissed you in your dream, it told you everything you needed to know in that moment and every moment folded into one; the angel is the kiss, is the sky and the sun rising over the valley, is the centuries of blood in the dirt, is the wine and the tang and the knife and the light. it didn't say anything at all. it told you everything.

burn.

he stands, wrathful, wraithful. drives his shoulder into your stomach and pins you against the wall; the corner of the brickwork slams along the full length of your spine. you are held there; you cannot move. in another life, you are pinned to a wooden post. ropes itch around your wrists. in another life, he kills you there.

burn, the angel told you.

the halo ignites. the alley fills with light.

//

when you get home, it is with red knuckles and a tear in your ugly polo shirt. beatrice is waiting for you in her training clothes.

'i used the halo,' you tell her. 'i'm sorry.'

she was ready for this, because she's ready for almost anything, but she's not happy. the apartment is packed up quickly. you shove all your clothes into one bag—your shirts with hers, your pants with hers, your underwear with hers—and finally the guilt catches up with you because yes, it would have fucking killed you to walk away from the alley without helping but now you have to run and you are dragging beatrice with you.

there are church bells in the distance and know this is the day you were thinking of. looking out the window over your bed, you see the church and its spire, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. behind you, the phone rings. beatrice snatches it up and holds it to her cheek.

'we have to leave,' she tells someone on the other end of the line. mother superion, probably. 'ava used the halo.'

they have questions for you.

you used the halo? yes.

there was a fight? yes. a wraith. a girl was going to die.

did it get away? no. you destroyed it.

how? without divinium? the halo burned it up.

how? i don't know.

why?

'why, ava?' beatrice asks, bitterly frustrated.

you are done with packing. drop the bag onto the floor at the end of the bed and sink down onto it. it creaks under your weight. you stare down at your hands; they are healing, slowly. your stomach aches where he slammed into you, and inside too, guts churning unhappily under beatrice's disappointed stare. your shoulder blades burn as the halo works.

your back doesn't hurt; the halo healed that first, like it knew that you would fall apart, like it knew you wouldn't be able to make it home if your back hurt like that.

beatrice is waiting for you to say something like, i saw the wraith and i had to do something. something like, i've had enough of running. something like that. you could tell her that. it's true, mostly, but she squints at you, suspicious and unnerved, and you know it isn't true enough.

'i had a dream.' the words come out rough and untidy. you had shoved them deep down and now you are flailing to find them again, one at a time. 'three nights ago. an angel. it came to me, i guess, i think. and today i heard it again. or, today was what it had been talking about.'

beatrice frowned. she was standing across the room, in the corner, because she had tucked herself away there with all her anger neatly packed away and hadn't moved since.

'an angel came to you. spoke to you?'

'sort of.'

'sort of,' she repeated. the words would have been sharply spoken, if beatrice weren't so careful about their placement. the sharp edges didn't come anywhere near you but you knew they were there. 'what does that mean? why didn't you mention this before? you know i am trying to help.'

'i know, i know that. but i don't believe in angels, i don't believe in god. so, yeah, i didn't fucking mention it because it's insane and i'm freaking out a bit.'

'ava.' beatrice says your name so softly, so kindly. you suspect she's forgotten that she's holding the phone to her cheek, that her mother superion can hear her. 'it was just a dream.'

words can deceive. when you talk, you translate, and it has to be a little bit of a lie every single time because nothing that is said is ever what it is. the space between those two things are filled with faith, a certain amount of trust, that strains when the distance between what is said and what is (could be) grows greater. i am ava, you say to anyone in the world, and they will believe you, little faith required. i spoke with an angel, an angel spoke to me, an angel wore your face and came to me in the night and pressed its holy lips against my skin. how much faith would be required to accept that?

words are not enough.

so you take her by the hand and lift it to your cheek. something flickers in her eyes—you wonder, briefly, if she had the same dream, if she had been in your dream worn by an angel, or if she's just had this thought all by herself, unholy, human—and slide her fingers to the spot behind your ear. beatrice's eyes go wide, then narrow. she pulls you forward. twists your head to the side and lifts your hair out of the way.

'you've been wearing your hair down,' she says, steel on her tongue; arrow, fire-starter. you burn. 'you've been hiding this from me.'

//

you drive away.

well, beatrice drives away. she rents a car with an ID you've never seen her use—secrets upon secrets upon good intentions—and you leave. past the church, up the road out of the valley. you shiver as the town disappears behind you, feel ghostly fingers against your spine.

she drives to a little town a few hours away.

you buy new clothes, leave the car where the rental agency will pick it up again.

beatrice takes you to the station and buys tickets for the next train. this town, this afternoon, is wet and blue. beatrice drags you into the bathroom and the dull light drips through a small window up near the roof and you are reminded of when you dropped the sword into the river and it had sunk to the bed. the light spilled out when you reached for it, like the sword was cutting a hole between worlds, and divinity spilled out cold and blue into the water. you need to look different, both you, just in case. you paste bleach into her dark hair to lighten it. she cuts your hair as neatly as she can within the confines of a time limit and a cramped bathroom. when she's done, your hair falls just beneath your ears. curls a little.

beatrice stares at you like she's seen a ghost.

'what? did you fuck it up?'

she frowns, because you swore, because she doesn't fuck anything up. 'no.'

'bea.'

'we don't know much about joan of arc.' beatrice reaches out a hand toward you, a little helpless, a lot awed; she flinches back before she touches you. 'most historical documents agree that she was a great speaker. either she had a lovely voice or that she was compelling.' her eyes trace the line of your hair, the line she had drawn. your eyes trace the line between you, the one she doesn't cross. 'she had dark hair cut short. and a mark behind her ear.'

'she died.'

beatrice nods. 'burned at the stake. for heresy.'

you don't want to die. ever since the dream, you've been tasting blood. you haven't told beatrice that and you won't. something is coming and you're scared.

'heresy, huh?' you grin at her. 'sounds like my kind of girl.'

//

beatrice washes the bleach out of her hair. you help her, sink your fingers into her hair—the line between you is diminished, beatrice allows you to cross it sometimes, when you need to. she still doesn't touch you—and wash her clean. it's the same sink where she cut your hair, changed you. does it feel like a baptism for her? you don't believe in that sort of thing but she does and when she lifts her head out of the sink, you know that something has changed.

//

you're sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the cool tiles, and watching her dry her hair, her ears, with one of the tea-towels you'd randomly shoved into the bag while you were packing. your hair is short and it tickles your neck. you scratch at the mark behind your ear and blurt out, finally,

'it looked like you. the angel, i mean.'

beatrice stares down at you.

'oh. angels are Asian?'

you burst out laughing. 'maybe? but i mean it literally looked like you. like you. like,' you wave a hand at her. 'it was you, i mean.' you feel hot all over. nothing to do with an angel.

'oh,' she says again.

beatrice drags her fingers through her hair. you watch carefully. you've seen her plenty of times now without her veil (wimple?), seen her after a shower, rubbing the wet out of her hair with a big, fluffy towel. you have always looked away. now, she's using a teatowel that you hate—it never seems to dry the dishes, just moves the water around, and you'll be glad to chuck it out now that a little of the bleach has stained the corner of it—and you can't look away from her careful hands, the way she gently squeezes the towel around her hair, working down to the tips.

'i'm sorry for not telling you.'

'i understand why you didn't.'

'do you?'

'you thought i wouldn't believe you. that an angel spoke to you.'

she says it so carefully but wonder spills out from the words anyway. she believes, she has faith. it fills the space between the words, bright and blue and lovely.

'no. after - after him,' you say, because beatrice has asked you never to speak his name in public, 'i think we're all a little more open minded about things like that existing.'

'then why?'

the tiles are cool when you rest your head back against the wall. you stare at her—gentle hands, the slope of her neck exposed, all her hair gathered to the other side, the way she holds herself, more relaxed now that you have a plan but set, prepared to leap into action if the door slams open, if they find you here. the black sweatpants she found here in town, the comfy slouch of her sweater. travelling clothes, new clothes. when she squeezes water out of her hair, a droplet falls to the cuff of her new sweater; you wonder if the bleach has all washed away, or if the sweater will stain. there's a chain around her neck; the OCS cross hangs heavy at the end of it, hidden beneath her clothes. the only thing you can see that reminds you of sister beatrice.

'mostly, i wasn't sure how you'd take it. if i said, i dreamed about you last night.' you've said those exact words to her before. you have never said them like this. she doesn't need to ask what she was—seagull, frog, face in the crowd, church—she was herself, she was more than what she lets you see of herself. beatrice's cheeks pink. you smile at her, a bit wobbly. 'and i didn't want to listen. i don't want to listen. to it. to an angel. when has that ever been a good thing for the person listening? when has it ever ended well? i just - i want to be normal.' the last time you said that, mary kicked you off a cliff. you broke so many bones that you couldn't move for a long time, and your vision stayed fuzzy well into the next day. you brace for a lecture—not everything is about you—or worse, another kick, a knife to the back, unworthy, but beatrice only looks at you. 'i don't want to die.'

the towel hits the floor with a wet slap.

beatrice kneels. she lowers herself to the floor, to her knees, to your side. she clasps your wrist. her fingers are cold, slippery with water. you shiver, twist, so that you are holding her hand. so that she is holding yours.

'i won't let that happen.' her mouth goes flat, eyes determined, and with her other hand she touches your cheek, turns your head. moves your hair away from the mark; for a long time, she stares at the mark. you wonder if she knows what you haven't said. you kissed me. you pressed your lips to my skin and i burned and burned and burn. she must, she must. she presses her thumb to your skin—cold thumb, hot brand—and you jerk toward her, a broken, hot sound in the back of your throat. you cannot stop yourself; you didn't know until it happened that you were capable of such a noise.

beatrice's eyes go wide. she doesn't take her hand away. she presses again and this time you are prepared. cheeks hot, you look away—stare resolutely at the pipes beneath the sink, the curve of the metal, the ugly break in the wall where the pipes disappear. beatrice swipes her thumb over the mark and then takes her hand away. it is heresy, you think, when she says,

'i don't want you to die either.'

[mwagneto]

EHMM WHAT. from wild blue yonder // church on ruby road // church on ruby road script respectively

[coridallasmultipass]

brocal for the ship bingo?

The OTP to end all other OTPs... (Man. This wound up being basically Cori's Masterpost of BroCal. AKA... this got long and has some images, since I realized I can post my own art directly instead of just a text link to it lol.)

Wasn't actually expecting this to wind up with a bingo? But I got basically 2?? (Will explain the lighter heart later.) This is A LONG post, and definitely gonna get SUGGESTIVE, bc man, am I obSESSED with BroCal. I'm just gonna go thru each checked box, since I don't know how else to structure this post lol.

Read More to save ppl's dashboards:

I want them to make out with blood: OKAY. I HAVE A WHOLE THING PLANNED FOR THIS CONCEPT. I AM NOT GOING TO GO INTO DETAIL ABOUT IT JUST YET BC I ACTUALLY WANNA WRITE IT. I'm obsessed with this one fanart of Bro licking Lil Cal, and it spurred on an idea I outlined and really wanna write: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/739969858334294016/hiiii-mutual-i-am-secrecy-asking-if-u-have-anymore

((Sorry for the plain text links, Tumblr app is NOT cooperating with me right now to add hyperlinks. I'd post the image directly if that one was mine.))

Basically, I just really need to see Bro and Cal making out with blood in their mouths, and I started a whole convoluted, unrelated outline in order to make that hapen. It'll probably just be a really short thing that ends at the uh climax, since otherwise it's gonna end up sadstuck. And I don't like sadstuck lol.

Undeniably t4t: Bro and Dirk are always trans for me, and Lil Cal's got that uh... what percentage did I calculate it out to be? 13% of Dirk is in Lil Cal [ My shitpost calculations: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/746702663327072256/i-ran-out-of-tags-rambling-about-this-so-im-just ] so Lil Cal is at least 13% trans because of that much of Dirk being in him, plus however you feel about the other components being trans. LMAO this is ridiculous to type out. Moving on.

EDIT: FUTURE CORI INTERJECTING WITH A:

"Lil Cal Top Surgery Healing Progess: Day 1"

Terrible for each other affectionate/derogatory: I don't even know where the affectionate/derogatory split occurs. I multiship BroCal as both Bro/normal puppet Lil Cal and as Bro/evil juju puppet Lil Cal, and whatever combination in between or outside of that. Terrible in that Bro is so obsessed with Cal that he doesn't have normal relationship/social skills and uses Lil Cal as both a crutch and motivator alternately, in a terrible cycle, or maybe rather... spiral. And also terrible in that Bro is caught in the allure of playing the role of puppeteer while also being a puppet for the darker parts of Lil Cal, whether he actively knows it or not. (Honestly though, I feel like it's dismissive if you try to blame all of Bro's faults on Lil Cal like this tho, which is why I tend towards liking Lil Cal as just a regular puppet a lil bit more. Or at least, a regular mildly supernatural puppet since that can be a little more entertaining if Cal can get into mischief while no one's looking or give off the vibes of his mood more directly, rather than like entirely inanimate or 'just LE, trapped in a puppet body.' Again, I like all of these concepts.) ((I mean that can also be a whole post of its own, like, by the time Bro gets ahold of Lil Cal, are any of the other components still alive in there? Like, are ARquius and Gamzee still in there or did Caliborn kill and consume them entirely? Idk how it works, man. This is why I like Lil Cal as his own person, maybe just influenced by the feelings of the others. LaCroix: CalGamARquius essenced water. Lil Croix.))

They need to get weirder with it: YES YES. 1000% YES. I need entirely shameless Bro doing entirely shamless things to Lil Cal. I want them inseparable and doing unspeakable things to each other. I want Bro taking full advantage of Cal having a puppet body and all the intimacy that comes with making repairs and being elbow-deep in stuffing.

Playing with them like dolls cute/psychological torture: This is the same divide as with the 'terrible for each other' point, so I'm just gonna go with the cute one, since the torture one is self-explanatory. I want them fucking married. Like. Full mushy cute romance type of relationship that Bro has never felt for any of the people in his life (cough aromantic cough). I made this comic not too long ago, and I often fondly look back on it, because I adore the concept of Bro being lovey and romantic and everything out of character around Lil Cal because he feels safe and loved and comfortable around Cal:

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/750602227910131712/brocal-4-lyfe-so-i-had-this-idea-of-dave-being ]

I made a post a long, long time ago (not gonna link that one bc it was personal and I was being very obviously mentally ill ["C'mon, like you're not being obviously mentally ill while typing paragraph upon paragraph about BroCal still in 2024 like 10 years later??" Fair.]) But the gist of it was that, like, having objectophilia or objectum sexuality is like, from an outsider pov, it's a way to express love to yourself. You filter all your self-hate through the object you love, and you get back unconditional love in return.

Lil Cal is never gonna hate Bro, no matter what Bro does. As a regular puppet, Lil Cal doesn't have the capacity for hate. And so that only brings them closer, since Cal is never gonna reject Bro for any reason. (Back to being a crutch. RSD is real, and Dave is probably a big trigger for that since he's not on the same wavelength of weird as Bro [not blaming Dave, obviously, this is a post about BroCal].) Bro can experience receiving positive attention from Lil Cal, without feeling 'fake' or uncool by expressing that same attention or affection directly to his own self. (Things are always done through multiple layers with the Striders, aren't they?) ((And I'm not saying Lil Cal doesn't love Bro, or that their relationship is just pretend - it's real, I'm just like, 'What's going on behind the curtain in the mundane situation?/ How is the relationship appealing?' Lil Cal luvs Bro 5eva 4 lyfe and that's a hard fact. Could cut diamonds with that shit.)) Example: maybe Bro is dealing with a bout of body/gender dysphoria and is trying to take out his frustration with working out, and it's not helping, even if he's powered through a set better than normal. Then, he notices the way Lil Cal is watching him, and he can feel the excitement seeping off Cal. He can sense the echoes of a wolf-whistle ring out through his mind, and it's like. Okay, none of that shit from before matters, he's got all the validation he needs right there in Lil Cal. Maybe flex in Cal's direction, Bro?

Oh, so back to being cute: isn't it wonderful how the template maker phrased it as 'playing dolls'? But yeah, I want all the mush and everything. Bro has a whole wardrobe for Lil Cal for every minor event that occurs in the Strider household. I want them going on genuine dates. Maybe even... holding hands. Bro blushes for the first time since he was 16. He even gets to take Lil Cal with him when he goes out to DJ or put on a show. Not to mention the whole website business. (I've talked about Cal's role in that before, but I'll mention it in a moment...)

They will die in a heart shaped pool of blood: I mean, kinda did happen, even tho Lil Cal didn't perma die right there. I don't think this one needs any explanation, since it basically happens in canon.

'You should see the other guy...': Okay, so. About 11 years ago, I had a really great idea. About how smuppets enter this world. I expanded on it in the following more-recent post (adult only content lol): https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/741683686717669376/back-in-the-day-my-friends-called-me-insane-when-i

To sum it up, whenever Bro makes a new smuppet design, he then gives it a video debut on his website, where uh, Lil Cal births the smuppet like it's a horror movie scene, fake blood and poly-fil gore all over the place as the smuppet crawls out from the viscera. Bro then gets to play aftercare by lovingly and gently cleaning up and restuffing Lil Cal as they get to admire their new creation and rake in the dough lol.

So it's technically not a 'you should see the other guy' kinda situation, but it does involve one of them being... idk what word would describe it. Injured by the other? Usually a character loses a fight and says this to act like they got out of it better than the other guy, but... We could have someone knock on the door during the filming of a scene like that, and Bro has to answer it with fake blood up to his elbows, and be like 'You should see the other guy.' (But obviously, that's a terrible idea and would cause more trouble than it's worth... Maybe worth it for a persistent door to door salesperson, though.)

Though, I guess I should also say, I'm not opposed to Bro beating on Lil Cal in or out of the bedroom. Or in the case of animate Lil Cal, Cal choking out Bro. In or out of the bedroom, lol. Depends on the situation, like I said I will ship this ship any which way. But my preference for animate Lil Cal is to be like a totally normal puppet around Bro (or mushy in-love with Bro) and then evil-murder-puppet towards anyone else in Bro's life, like a... toxic yaoi guard puppet. (New Phrase Achievement Unlocked!) Bro brings home another guy to have sex, who tries to stay the night due to the late hour, but the guy wakes up shortly after to see Lil Cal standing there with a knife in the dark, eyes glowing red. Panic ensues when the guest screams and freaks out, and by the time Bro's got a light on, grabbing his sword, ready for a ninja vs ninja fight (bc an intruder would've had to bypass all the traps), Lil Cal is just innocently splayed across the desk chair, no knife in sight. Relevant post (well, the caption on the post too, saying how Bro can't seem to hold onto any relationships besides Lil Cal):

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/741830516962164736/i-want-you-so-youre-mine-always-selfishly ]

Uh, lol, also Cal choking out Bro in the bedroom, adult only drawing: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/754328907438800896/i-wouldnt-wanna-be-my-ex-when-he-found-out-who

Thinking about them always and forever: Listen. My Tumblr as proof, I've had BroCal on the brain for at least 11 years at this point. Definitely longer, since I first started reading Homestuck. I fucking love puppets and dolls and plushies and I always have. Man, if I hadn't deleted Tweets (automated app I used to do, and I couldn't choose what to save) from when I was in high school, you could've seen me @ ing my fave band when they were taking lyric suggestions on a fan-inspired album, where I was telling them 'make a song where the theme is puppets' and, while I don't know if they saw that or took the suggestion (they had responded to me before bc they weren't huge yet), there is indeed a song titled "Puppets" on that album, and it was my favourite song on there. Point is, I was fated to ship BroCal before I even knew it existed.

Sicko 2 sicko communication: I mean, does this even need explaining? Bro and Cal aren't just on the same wavelength of freaky, they're the fucking source of the wavelength, and it's causing a feedback loop between them. And it does as feedback does, which is, it amplifies with time. (Going back to the spiral symbolism here, lol.) ((Actually, time can play a symbol here, too, I guess, but idk how to word it, I'm starting to run out of steam.))

Let them have a happy ending: God, I need this so badly. I know Bro's story ends in Homestuck, but like. Pls. Someone needs to officiate their wedding. Currently placing the dreambubble order, but I can't organize a wedding by myself. OH speaking of. In that lil comic I did above, where Bro is accepting Lil Cal's proposal, I had the Natural Born Killers wedding scene in mind. I was gonna draw that as a follow up, but I think I have too many WIPs going. Just two people on the run, saying "I do" in a scenic but completely ordinary roadside location. Idk why, I keep going back to that movie for things related to Bro (I mention it in a very important scene in a longer WIP I've been writing, as something Bro watched and internalized as a kid lol.) It's not the best movie lol. Anyway.

The devotion omg: I feel like I have already gotten my point across about this, but let me reiterate:

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/735842968450269184/in-the-name-of-iconic-magical-girl-anime-ill ]

Bro and Lil Cal absolutely beat the shit outta Jack Noir before he gets prototyped. And even then, they fight together till the death, like. C'mon. Nothing more romantic than fighting a losing battle side by side. Also, like, Lil Cal having his own protective chest for safekeeping as seen in the Strider living room? Like, you don't just have a protective case for any old thing, especially something meant to be handled, especially something that is regularly used to smack other things/humans. What I'm saying is, Lil Cal is durable and resilient, and yet, Bro still has a case for transporting Cal safely. Oh, wait, I just thought of something funny, what if Lil Cal goes feral like a cat, and basically the chest is like a cat carrier so Bro can drive without being constricted lmaoooo, I've been typing for hours can you tell?

Kind of homophobic: Listen. I HAD a Cal. Took him to college. Staked my claim on the top bunk bc I am royalty. Proceeded to not have anywhere to set my water cup and had to use a cardboard box as a table up there. Spilled water. Melted Cal's sharpie-drawn face. And then proceeded to cry. I have a WIP of Lil Cal 2, but that requires actually remembering to work on him. I wanna do better by the pattern, too, since I rushed to finish the first. I have all the material! I have the project started! So it's just a matter of reordering my WIP priorities, honestly.

Where is all the fucking content?!: For realzz. I was actually venting about this the other day (didn't end up posting it), but it's like, either there's no BroCal content, or there IS BroCal content, but I can't reblog it for reasons I don't want to get into on this post. I'm dying of thirst in the ocean, basically. Whatever. This just means I need to make more BroCal content myself, which I am more than happy to do. I've just had a rough past few months, so I'm glad I got to type all this post out, and hopefully I can get back to creating soon.

Last one! I hope this one makes up for the absurd length of the post, it's prob my new fave idea I just came up with on the spot.

[TW drink spiking by a stranger mentioned in this.]

Committing atrocities as their silly little activities: I think we all know what this means, but I am going to ignore that elephant with my special x-ray vision. Because this is a BroCal post. I'm digging deep to the meat and bones of this. Honestly, this could go multiple routes, it depends on how you take your Lil Cal.

One could place emphasis on the 'guard' part of the, ahem ahem, toxic yaoi guard puppet. Maybe someone is actually trying to harm Bro, and Bro legit can't do anything for reasons outside of his control - let's say his drink got spiked a while after he invited a stranger home that he thought was chill. As Bro gets shoved down on the futon, his memory of the night is only a few flickers. Familiar orange plush, roiling around above him like a dancing windsock. Flashes of Lil Cal's face all distorted and stretched wide like a funhouse. J-Lo and Ice Cube on the TV. But when Bro is finally able to fully wake up in the morning, everything is as if he just got home alone last night and passed out on the futon. Cal looks totally normal and content tucked under Bro's warm arm. Except when Bro gets up, there is a pair of shoes too big to belong to him at the door. Maybe Bro knows. Maybe instinct tells him to run. Maybe he does, but he's running towards Lil Cal, every time.

[eeblouissant]

You mentioned liking requests for drawings a couple days ago and I immediately went: oh! I've got to suggest something then! When I realised I was completely blank because I honestly adore everything you post (which somehow makes it very difficult to come up with something) 😂

But after reading 'heaven hath no fury like a woman scorned' I have to suggest: young Dorothy & Kate? :')

she’s copying her mummy :’)